The Gift
by Jenksel
Summary: Cassandra talks Jenkins into getting out of his comfort zone by volunteering with her one day at the children's hospital, where he unexpectedly makes a new friend.


Jenkins adjusted his favorite emerald-green bow tie as he stood with Cassandra at the nurses' station for the Children's Wing of Portland General Hospital. The tall man looked around uneasily. He didn't have a lot of experience with modern hospitals, even less with modern children. _How on earth_ had he let his wife talk him into doing this? He immediately scolded himself with a tiny shake of his head. He _let_ her talk him into it, because he knew it made her happy. And Jenkins never wanted anything more than to make his beloved Librarian happy, even if it meant forcing himself outside of his comfort zone once in a while. Like right now.

"Okay, we're all set!" chirped Cassandra as she turned to him. She reached up and clipped a volunteer's badge to the lapel of his suit coat, then fussed with his tie and pocket square. She looked up into his hesitant brown eyes, her own blue ones filling with sympathy.

"You don't have to do this if you really don't want to," she said quietly. "I know how uncomfortable you get when you're out of the Annex and among strangers." Jenkins rolled his head back on his neck and took a deep breath.

"No, I'm fine," he said as he squared his shoulders. "I just hope that I can live up to your expectations." Cassandra smiled up at him, then stood on her toes to give him a quick peck on the lips.

"You already have, sweetheart!" she whispered, then took his hand to lead him down the hallway toward the children's ward.

"Now, remember," she instructed as they walked. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. You can just sit and let the kids come to you if you want; don't force it, just have fun!" She patted his hand reassuringly.

"You'll be great, though, I just know it! The kids will absolutely love you!"

They entered the common room of the children's ward, a brightly-lit atrium-like space painted in cheerful, vibrant colors and decorated with images of various characters from well-known fairy tales and nursery rhymes, as well Disney princesses and various superheroes. There were toys and books available for the children to play with and read, board and video games and bins full of crayons, markers, colored pencils, construction paper and coloring books. Despite the brightness of the décor, Jenkins could still detect the unsettling, sterile smell common to all hospitals, and it clashed with the cheery surroundings. All round the room, he saw sick children—some desperately so. They were with their parents, siblings, grandparents and friends, gathered in small groups, talking, playing, coloring, laughing. As he and Cassandra stood at the entrance, a small girl of about seven years and wearing a leg brace, hobbled quickly over to them, a huge smile on her wan face.

"Miss Cassandra! Miss Cassandra!" she shrieked happily and wrapped her thin arms around the Librarian's waist. "You're back!"

"Of course I'm back!" the young woman said, laughing as she stooped and returned the child's hug. "I promised I would come back, and I always keep my promises!" Cassandra stood up and laid a hand on Jenkins's arm.

"Melissa, I want you to meet someone. This is my husband, Mr. Jenkins." The little girl craned her head back to look up at the tall man. Her green eyes went wide, and Jenkins thought he detected more than a little fear in them as she stared up at him. After an awkward pause, he reached his hand out to her.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Miss Melissa," he said, smiling and trying hard not to sound threatening. Her eyes never left his face as Melissa slowly put her tiny hand in his so he could shake it.

"Hi," she said solemnly. Then, not knowing what else to do, the little girl let go of him and turned back to Cassandra.

"Will you read to us again today?" she asked, excitement returning to her face and voice. Cassandra cast an apologetic look up at her husband. This wasn't going as well as she had hoped it would.

"Yes, of course I will," she told Melissa. "Do you have a book picked that you'd like for me to read?" Melissa began to bounce with anticipation.

"Yes!" she yelled.

"Okay, why don't you go get it, then, and some of the others kids who want to hear it, too, and I'll be over in a minute to read to you." Melissa turned and rushed back to a group of children coloring Spring-themed pictures, hollering the entire way that Miss Cassandra was going to read to them. Cassandra looked up at Jenkins.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," she said with disappointment. "She's just shy with strangers, that's all. Once she gets to know you better…" The immortal shook his head.

"Perfectly all right," he murmured, and forced a smile. "I'm certain that all small children find someone of my stature somewhat frightening at first." He patted her hand to reassure her.

"Now, you'd better go and see to your admirers before they cause a riot," he urged, nodding at the rapidly growing hive of excited children impatiently waiting for their favorite storyteller. "I'll be fine, my dear, don't worry about me. I can take care of myself." Cassandra gave him one last hesitant look, then gave him a faint smile as several small hands grabbed hers and began to tug her in the direction of the Story Corner.

As Cassandra was swallowed up by the mob of children, Jenkins turned and looked around the room. He spotted a nice, comfortable-looking chair off by itself and bathed in what promised to be a pleasantly warm beam of morning sunlight. He decided to follow his young wife's advice; he would park his ancient bones in that chair and let the little urchins come to him if they so desired.

He strode over to the chair and sat. The sunlight did, indeed, feel very good. He leaned back into the chair and closed his eyes, soaking in the warmth as it made its way through the layers of his clothing. He was dangerously close to dozing off when he was suddenly aware of a presence nearby, and his soldier's instinct kicked in. He sat upright, instantly alert and scanning the area. He started as, right next him, he discovered a young African-American boy, appearing to be about ten years old, just standing and staring unblinkingly with large, dark eyes at the old man. He had a fat, well-worn book with a faded blue cloth cover clutched to his chest.

"Hi," said the boy when he saw that Jenkins was awake. "My name's Jerome. What's yours?" Jenkins settled back into is chair, his eyes glancing quickly over the child. Jenkins thought he looked far too thin, his eyes far too large for his face, but otherwise he could see no other obvious signs of illness.

"My name is Jenkins," he rumbled, more gruffly than he meant to do. He extended his hand automatically and immediately regretted it, fearing another awkward moment as he'd just had with Cassandra's young friend. To his surprise, Jerome reached out and shook it, his grip remarkably firm.

"Very pleased to meet you, sir," he said. Jenkins blinked in wonder.

"And I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Jerome," he returned, giving a nod of his white head. Jerome pointed at Jenkins's throat.

"That's a cool tie; is it a clip-on?" he asked curiously.

"Certainly not! I tie them myself, every morning," answered Jenkins crustily, affronted by the suggestion. He again began to regret coming here today.

"Really?" persisted Jerome, impressed. "Can you teach me how to do that?" Jenkins, taken aback, blinked at the boy.

"I…I suppose so," he stammered.

"Cool!" exclaimed Jerome, breaking into a wide grin. "I'll go back to my room and get _my_ tie and you can show me!"

"Wait!" barked Jenkins, holding out a hand to stop the child. "We don't need you running through the hallways and possibly hurting yourself; we can use mine."

Jenkins reached up to pull the knot out of it and then tugged it free of his collar before handing it to Jerome. The boy gingerly rubbed his fingers against the shiny green fabric and turned it over in his small hand, fascinated.

"Man, it's so soft!" he breathed, impressed. "This one's _way_ nicer than mine!" Jenkins forced himself to smile, wishing right now that he was back in his lab getting some work done.

"It's made of silk," he said. Jenkins reached to take the tie back. "If you'll turn around and stand in front of me, I can show you more easily how to tie a proper knot."

Setting the tattered book down on a nearby table, Jerome did as the immortal instructed, and Jenkins draped the accessory over the back of Jerome's neck. For the next fifteen minutes, Jenkins patiently demonstrated to the eager boy how to tie a perfect knot. When Jerome was able to knot it by himself to perfection, he turned to face Jenkins, pride shining in his dark brown eyes as he adjusted the green tie now around his thin neck.

"How do I look?" he asked excitedly. Jenkins nodded in approval, with no little pride himself at how quickly Jerome had learned the task.

"Very handsome!" he said, feeling more at ease with the child. "Perfectly knotted, Mr. Jerome, and I do believe you learned how to do it in much less time than it took me to learn; very well done!"

"Thanks!" he replied, then a more serious look fell over his face.

"I mean, thank you very much for teaching me. That was very nice of you," he said formally, and stretched out his hand for another handshake. Jenkins chuckled softly at the unexpected decorum, and reached to shake his hand again.

"You're very welcome, young man. And, my compliments on your excellent manners." A huge smile returned to Jerome's face and his eyes lit up.

"I read about it in a book!" he said enthusiastically. "It said to always be a gentleman, even when other people aren't!"

"That's very sound advice," said Jenkins, warming up to this young gentleman. He nodded at the book still lying on the table.

"Is that book you read about it in?" he asked. Jerome looked down shyly as he fidgeted slightly, then nodded.

"It's all about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table," he answered quietly. Jerome raised his head to gauge Jenkins's reaction. "It's all about chivalry."

"Indeed?" Jenkins said, intrigued. This young man seemed to be full of surprises. "I have a bit of interest in the Age of Chivalry myself; may I see it?" They were exactly the words Jerome had been hoping to hear.

"Yeah!" he exclaimed. Before Jenkins knew what was happening, Jerome had snatched the book from the table, then scrambled up into the roomy chair to sit next to the immortal and made himself comfortable. Jenkins nervously looked around to see if anyone was going to protest, but no one so much as looked in their direction. It was then that Jenkins realized that Jerome was in the common room all by himself—no family seemed to be with him. He frowned, thinking it strange, but his attention was soon redirected to the contents of the young boy's book.

"Look! Here's a castle!" said Jerome, opening the thick book to a page depicting a huge medieval fortress on a rugged seacoast. Jenkins recognized the somewhat romanticized illustration style as one common in the Nineteenth Century. This book appeared to be an old reprint of one originally published in the late 1800's.

"It is indeed," he agreed. "A fine castle, too, from what I can see, very well-placed for defense." Jerome grinned.

"Yeah! That's Camelot, that's where King Arthur lives!" he said animatedly, then flipped through the pages until he found another picture, this one of two knights jousting. "This one's Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawaine at a tournament! A tournament is kinda like a contest to see who the best knight is." Jenkins nodded vigorously, hiding a genuine smile now.

"And does Sir Lancelot win?" he asked the boy. Jerome looked up and grinned, nodded his head.

"He sure does!" Jerome continued. "First he knocked Sir Gawaine off of his horse, then they fought each other with swords. But Sir Gawaine couldn't beat him. Sir Lancelot beat everybody in a fight! Well, except for Sir Galahad. Sir Lancelot _tried_ to fight him one time, but Sir Galahad beat him—_nobody_ could beat Sir Galahad!"

"Is that so?" inquired Jenkins, doing his best to hide his amusement behind the serious tone of his voice. "I should very much like to hear that story! Will you read it to me, Mr. Jerome?" Jerome's face lit up.

"Yeah!" he exclaimed, and quickly turned to the appropriate place in the book. Jenkins relaxed in the chair and closed his eyes as Jerome read the tale to him. It was a ridiculous story, completely untrue, but Jenkins said nothing. The young boy read with such gusto, giving the characters different voices and adroitly changing the inflection of his voice to indicate moods and atmosphere that Jenkins didn't have the heart to spoil the boy's fantasy with bitter reality. Jenkins was very impressed by Jerome's skill in storytelling at such a young age, and he found himself thoroughly entertained by the tale—inaccurate as it was.

"Well done, Mr. Jerome!" he complimented when the story was finished. "You have a great deal of talent!" Jerome beamed with pride.

"I like all that Middle Ages stuff!" he said. He flipped to another page in the book, to a drawing of a knight in chainmail armor and holding a longsword, a massive draft-sized horse in the background. "Here's a picture of Sir Galahad, he's one of my favorite knights."

"Is he?" he asked, and curiosity overcame his natural reticence. "And why is that?" Jerome's face took on a more somber expression.

"'Cause he's kinda like me, I guess," he said self-consciously. "He never really fit in anywhere, either." His unexpected answer jarred the old knight.

"What do you mean?" Jenkins asked, watching Jerome's face carefully. Jerome shrugged.

"I dunno. He just doesn't seem to fit in with others, that's all. He's always alone. He's always has to go on adventures by himself, like nobody wants to hang out with him or something." Shaken, Jenkins felt an uncomfortable tightness come to his chest.

"Do you feel like that, Mr. Jerome?" he asked cautiously. Jerome nodded slowly, refusing to look up.

"Yeah, sometimes," he admitted.

"What about your family?"

"I don't have any," Jerome answered, an edge of bitterness creeping into his voice as he looked down at the book. "My parents died when I was little, I've been with foster families ever since." He shrugged a second time.

"But nobody wants to adopt a sick kid. I'm in the hospital too much to go to school anymore, so I can't make any real friends; nobody wants to be friends with a sick kid, either, anyway." Jenkins swallowed hard in the silence that fell between them then. Jenkins found himself inexplicably touched very deeply by the boy's plight and the injustice of it; an urge to protect him suddenly rose up within the knight.

"Yes, well…you've certainly made a friend today, Mr. Jerome!" declared Jenkins. Jerome jumped a little and blinked, startled by the ferocity of the old man's tone as he turned his head to stare at Jenkins. The immortal caught himself, and took a moment to calm himself before speaking again.

"What I mean to say," said Jenkins as he forced a smile to his face. "Is that you're a fine young man—a _gentleman_. I would consider it an honor to call myself your friend, if you're willing to accept my offer of friendship?" Jerome continued to stare at Jenkins for several seconds, warily searching for any sign of condescension or deception. Finally, satisfied that Jenkins was sincere, he broke into another wide grin.

"Really?" he asked, and Jenkins nodded. "You'll come and see me and everything?"

"Absolutely!" the immortal promised, holding out his hand again to shake Jerome's and seal the deal.

"All _right_!" the boy exclaimed happily. Instead of shaking Jenkins's hand, though, he slapped it in a sideways high-five. Jenkins laughed, suddenly very pleased that he _had_ decided to come to the hospital with Cassandra after all. He turned his attention back to the book lying open in Jerome's lap.

"Now, shall we get back to King Arthur while we still have time?" he said, adjusting his position in the chair so he could see the book better. As though it was the most natural thing in the world, Jerome rested against Jenkins's chest. Jenkins paused, confused for a moment by the unfamiliarity of the childlike gesture of trust. Recovering himself quickly, he cleared his throat and tapped a long finger on the picture of Sir Galahad.

"You should know, Mr. Jerome, that the horse in this illustration is far too large for a knight," he earnestly informed his new friend. "We—er, _they_—never rode horses that large, they're far too slow and clumsy for battlefield conditions." Jerome looked up, a thoughtful frown on his face.

"Really?" he asked. "But how could they ride a regular horse with all that heavy armor and stuff on?"

"Ah!" said Jenkins, smiling and warming up to the very familiar and much more pleasant topic of conversation. "They had a special breed of horse, called a destrier. They don't exist anymore, more's the pity. They were small and compact, but very strong and muscular for their size. They could easily carry a knight in full armor, and they were very agile." He shook his white head disparagingly.

"They were also _very_ expensive." Jenkins turned to give Jerome a disgusted scowl.

"In fact, did you know that a good destrier could cost as much as three hundred gold _livres_, as opposed to just ten or twelve _livres_ for a regular courser? It was _outrageous_ how deeply breeders gouged for their animals, simple highway robbery! And _then_, on top of _that_, one had to pay for the saddle, the tack, the shoes, the barding, the caparisons—BAH! Don't even get me _started_ on the caparisons!" Jenkins then noticed the bewildered look on Jerome's face.

"My apologies, Mr. Jerome," the immortal said sheepishly. "Sometimes I get carried away on this particular subject."

"Wow!" Jerome breathed slowly. "That's so _cool_! How do you know all that stuff?!" Jenkins couldn't help but be pleased by the compliment.

"Let's just say that I've studied these things for a _very_ long time, and leave it at that," he said in a conspiratorial whisper.

The pair spent the next hour and a half absorbed in Jerome's storybook, examining each illustration in it, sometimes pausing to read a story. Jenkins expounded on certain topics as long-forgotten memories were suddenly triggered by the young boy's book. Jerome hung on the old knight's every word, soaking the lessons up like a sponge and asking questions. They even got into a friendly debate about which knightly tournament sport took more courage—jousting or the mêlée.

"Well! Looks like you found someone to talk to after all!" said Cassandra cheerily as she walked over to the chair. She was thrilled to see that Jenkins hadn't had to spend the whole morning sitting alone. He and Jerome both looked up from the book, and Jenkins smiled.

"I did, indeed!" he said proudly. "Mr. Jerome, this is my wife, Mrs. Jenkins. Cassandra, this is Mr. Jerome." Cassandra smiled brightly as she shook the young man's hand.

"Hi, Jerome! How're you doing today?" she said, the pair already familiar with each other. Jerome only stared up at her, his mouth slightly open. Cassandra glanced over nervously at Jenkins. Finally, Jerome turned to look at Jenkins.

"_Miss Cassandra's _your _wife_?!" he stage whispered. "Wow! No wonder you're so cool!" Jenkins burst into laughter.

"Why, thank you, Mr. Jerome!"

* * *

Over the next several weeks, Jenkins never failed to accompany Cassandra when she did her bi-weekly volunteer visits at the hospital. He quickly found himself eager to see his new young friend at each visit, their time usually spent in sitting together away from the others in the same large chair, reading favorite stories from the ever-present book of Arthurian tales or discussing some aspect of medieval life. Sometimes they looked through picture books on the subject, with Jenkins taking great pains to point out all of the historical inaccuracies and correcting them, much to Jerome's delight. Sometimes they ventured into fairy tales, folktales and legends, and sometimes they just talked about whatever came to mind.

Jenkins learned that Jerome suffered from some type of bone cancer, and had been for some time. It explained the boy's gauntness and the spells of exhaustion or weakness he sometimes experienced when Jenkins visited him. Cassandra couldn't discover more details due to patient privacy policies at the hospital, and Jerome himself didn't want to about it in any great detail, so Jenkins let the subject lie. Jerome never complained about his illness, nor about any pain or discomfort he may have had. He was always waiting eagerly for Jenkins in the common room on visiting days, a had a huge smile on his face for the old immortal when he arrived, and they were both always sad to have to part at the end of the visits.

One day, Jenkins and Jerome took a slow walk around the grounds of the hospital, taking advantage of a brief warm spell in the normally dreary winter weather. As they took a rest break on a bench, Jerome looked up at Jenkins, a strange look on his face.

"Mr. Jenkins, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course," Jenkins said amiably. "What's on your mind?"

"Do you know what happens to people when they die?" Jenkins whipped his head around to look at Jerome, stunned.

"I beg your pardon?" the immortal asked sharply, not believing that he'd heard the boy correctly.

"Do you know what happens to people when they die?" Jerome repeated. "You know, do they go to Heaven if they're good, or go to the other place if they've been bad?" Jenkins shifted uneasily, not sure if he should be having this kind of a conversation with such a sick child. But there was something about the expression on Jerome's face that caused the immortal to realize that Jerome really wanted an answer, so he took the question seriously. He took a deep breath and pulled himself upright on the bench.

"Why do you ask?" probed Jenkins, a little too loudly. Jerome merely blinked owlishly at him and frowned.

"'Cause I'm gonna die soon," he said matter-of-factly. Jenkins began to protest, but Jerome interrupted him.

"I know I am, I hear the nurses and doctors talking sometimes when they think I'm not listening. And I have dreams about it, too, all the time," he said, one leg swinging slowly back and forth. "They're not scary or anything, just…dreams. Every time I have one, I'm in Heaven. So I was just wondering if Heaven is really a real place or not."

"Well, I don't have any _firsthand_ experience," Jenkins replied, flustered, trying to keep his tone light. Jerome's expression conveyed that he wanted to hear more. Jenkins inhaled deeply to steady himself, then became more serious.

"Are you truly concerned that Heaven is not a real place?" he asked carefully, and Jerome nodded.

"Yeah, kinda." he said, and dropped his head. "Some people say there's no such place as Heaven. They say that when you die, you just die. There's nothing after that. It kinda scares me."

"What do _you_ believe, Jerome?" asked Jenkins gently, despite the voice in his head telling him that this was none of his business. Jerome shrugged his thin shoulders, keeping his gaze fixed firmly to the ground.

"I dunno. I _want_ to believe it," he said. "Some people say that when you go to Heaven, you get to see all your family and friends again, and you get to be with them forever." Jerome dropped his head even lower, as if embarrassed to confess such a thing.

"You and Miss Cassandra are my best friends," he continued, his voice so faint that Jenkins had to lean over to hear him. "I _really_ want to see you again in Heaven; then we can all hang out together and be friends forever!" Jenkins felt a helpless ache in his chest at the boy's pitiful words. He wanted so desperately to tell Jerome that he _wasn't_ going to die, that he was going to get well soon and be a normal, healthy boy again. But that would be a lie, and Jerome would know it was lie. Instead, Jenkins placed his arm comfortingly around Jerome's shoulders, clearing his throat as he tried to banish the emotion that threatened to choke off the Caretaker's words.

"If that's what you really want, Jerome, then I think that's what will happen," Jenkins answered, trying hard to sound confident, and forced a soft laugh. "For what it's worth, I believe that there _is_ a life after this one, where we _are_ reunited with our loved ones—some call it 'heaven', some call it by other names—and I can see nothing that would keep _you_ from going there." He paused for a moment to give Jerome a reassuring hug and reassumed a lighter tone.

"I know that I would be delighted to see you again in the next life. If I'm found to be worthy enough to be admitted to Heaven, that is!" Jerome raised his head and looked up at Jenkins. His expression was sober, but his eyes were twinkling mischievously.

"Oh, I _know_ you'll get into Heaven, Mr. Jenkins!" he stated firmly. Jenkins smiled and raised his head to peer at Jerome down his nose.

"And how, exactly, do you know that?" he asked.

"'Cause Miss Cassandra married you!" Jerome replied without hesitation. "She's the nicest person I've ever known, and if _she_ married you, then that means _you're_ nice, too, 'cause she'd _never_ marry a _bad_ man!"

Jenkins stared down into Jerome's eyes, dumbstruck. He felt tears begin to sting his own eyes as the child's words sank in.

"Thank you, Jerome. That's…that's the kindest thing anyone has said to me in very long time," Jenkins managed to say, as he tried vainly to blink the tears away. Suddenly, Jerome leaned against the old knight and threaded his arms around Jenkins's waist.

"I love you, Mr. Jenkins," he said quietly, holding onto the immortal as tightly as his weakened arms could manage. Jenkins enveloped Jerome in his own arms and held the child close in a tight embrace, a few tears finally slipping free and rolling down his weathered cheeks.

"I…I love you, too, Jerome," he whispered hoarsely.

* * *

One evening a few weeks later, while Jenkins and Cassandra were busy updating a map of the current locations of _genuine_ fairy rings throughout the world, the Librarian's cell phone went off in her pocket.

"Oops! 'Scuse me, sweetie!" she said. She pulled the phone out of her skirt pocket and looked at the screen, frowned at the number displayed. "That's weird—it's the hospital."

As she stepped away from the workbench to take the call, a cold feeling of dread suddenly filled Jenkins's gut. The map forgotten, he stood up and strained to hear her end of the conversation.

"_What?!_" she gasped, then silence.

"Omigod! What happened? When?" she demanded, her voice becoming strained. Jenkins anxiously took a step toward her, holding his breath. More silence.

"I see," she said quietly after a couple of minutes. "Yes… Yes…. I'll tell him…. Yes, please let us know what the plans are as soon as you get them… Thanks for calling us…. Yeah, I know, but he'd want to know. Okay… Thanks, again. Bye." Cassandra turned slowly around, her face pale and her eyes rapidly filling with tears.

"Jenkins… I'm so sorry," she whispered, almost unable to get the words out. "It's…it's… Jerome… He… He's…" Bursting into sobs, she ran and threw herself into his arms and held onto him tightly. Numb, Jenkins automatically brought his arms up and wound them around Cassandra. He closed his eyes, the blood pounding in his ears as he fought back his own tears. Even though she couldn't say the words, he knew what she was trying to tell him.

Jerome had died.

* * *

Cassandra and Jenkins stood silently next to each other in front of the small, open casket. Cassandra reached over to take Jenkins's hand as they paid their final respects to the still, pitifully-thin boy lying inside. Jerome was dressed in a child-sized suit of black wool. The only spot of color was the too-large bow tie of emerald green silk at his neck—the same one that Jenkins had been wearing the first time he and Jerome met just a few weeks ago. Jenkins had insisted on it.

Mourners milled around the large room of the funeral home, talking quietly among themselves. They consisted mostly of hospital personnel: Nurses, doctors and orderlies, as well as other volunteers who had gotten to know Jerome during his stay at the hospital. Members of his current foster family were also present. Flynn, Eve, Jacob and Ezekiel came as well, to support Cassandra and Jenkins in their grief.

Jenkins had spoken barely a dozen words since they'd received the news four days ago, except to say that he wanted to pay for all of the funeral arrangements. Cassandra was worried about him. He hadn't eaten a bite during all this time, only drank tea, and she suspected he wasn't sleeping, either. She couldn't help worrying about him, even if he _was_ immortal. She knew how much Jenkins had come to love the little boy, and even though the immortal kept his feelings under a tight rein, she knew that he was devastated by Jerome's death.

She squeezed Jenkins's hand and cast a sympathetic look up at him.

"Jerome was really happy to have you as a friend," she murmured, hoping to give him at least a little consolation. "Some of the nurses told me that in between visits, you were the only thing he talked about. Before you came with me that one day, he hardly had any visitors at all. His foster parents both have to work, they already have kids of their own they have to take care of, so they couldn't come as much as they wanted. You helped make what time he had left _good_ time, you helped him to feel loved and wanted." He remained silent, his sad, watery brown eyes staring down at Jerome, but he tightly squeezed her hand back to let her know that he'd heard her.

After the service and burial, they all returned to the Annex, everyone's mood subdued. Jenkins didn't even bother to change clothes; he simply scooped Franklin up from the floor and disappeared into the lab for the rest of the day with the door closed.

Later that evening, after they'd gone to bed, Jenkins held Cassandra close in the darkness, his face hidden in her thick red hair. He still didn't speak, but she felt hot tears fall onto to the back of her neck. Cassandra rolled over and put her arms around him.

"It's okay, sweetheart," she murmured to him. "I'm here for you, I'll _always_ be here for you."

Jenkins pulled her close, buried his face in her neck, and began to sob

* * *

Two weeks later, Jenkins nervously adjusted his ruby-red bow tie as he stood with Cassandra at the nurses' station for the Children's Wing of Portland General Hospital. The tall man looked around uneasily. It had been a long time since he'd experienced the death of a loved one and its aftermath, even less with the death of a child. What on earth was he thinking, coming back here again? What was he thinking, opening himself up to the very real likelihood of even more heartache down the road?

He immediately scolded himself with a tiny shake of his head. Yes, losing Jerome and his friendship had been hard, and his ancient heart still ached from the loss. It had been hard to once again to come face to face with that age-old, unanswerable question he always asked himself when someone died—_Why them and not me?_ Why was a ten year-old boy cut down before he even had a chance to truly live, while Jenkins was forced to live on for countless more lifetimes yet to come? What _justice_ was there in that?

Even so, Jerome had given Jenkins a taste of something: Unconditional love, unconditional friendship, unconditional acceptance, unconditional companionship. Jenkins realized that, beyond the occasional evening with his D & D group, he still had no friends or social life _outside_ of the Annex. He still feared the pain of inevitably losing friends, still feared sharing himself too freely with "outsiders". He and Cassandra had had several conversations about it over the years, and she always gently encouraged him to open up just a _little_ bit, to let more people in. It was her contention that by being so reclusive, he was merely cheating himself out of the enriching gift of friendship that people brought with them.

Jerome had given that gift to him, had helped to open up the isolated Caretaker's world just a crack more and had shown him that not all things, not all relationships outside of the Annex were bad, even if they ended badly. And, more shockingly, if Cassandra was to be believed, Jenkins himself had been a gift to Jerome. Jenkins had never before really thought of himself as having the ability to _be_ a gift to others. To his surprise, as he pondered the events of the last several weeks, he found himself wanting to find that gift not only for himself again, but also to _be_ that gift again to another—even if it meant forcing himself outside of his comfort zone once in a while. Like right now.

"Okay, we're all set!" said Cassandra, her cheerfulness somewhat affected as she turned to him. She reached up and clipped a volunteer's badge to the lapel of his suit coat, then fussed with his tie and pocket square. She looked up into his hesitant brown eyes, her own blue ones filling with sympathy.

"You don't have to do this if you really don't want to," she said quietly. "You can take some more time if you need it, there's no rush." Jenkins rolled his head back on his neck and took a deep breath. In his hands was a fat, blue, well-loved, now greatly-treasured book of stories about King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table.

"No, I'm fine," he said as he squared his shoulders. "When one falls off of a horse, one must get back on again as quickly as possible. Besides," he added, his low voice catching slightly. "I owe it to Jerome. He was one of the bravest, wisest souls I've ever met; I just hope I will be able to honor his memory and our friendship by at least being brave and wise enough to get back onto _this_ particular horse." Cassandra smiled up at him, her blue eyes shining as she stood on her toes to give him a soft peck on the lips.

"You already have!" she whispered, emotion filling her voice as she proudly took his hand to lead him down the hallway toward the children's ward.


End file.
